


Grown Up

by geekmama



Series: Time of the Season [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 21:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10580289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: It was strange how clearly it all came back: the world-ending anguish of a child’s perspective. Though there was also the greater understanding of a parent’s burden..._____________________________________The end of a very long day for Mycroft and his brother, in this sequel toBroken.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'When' prompt.
> 
>  
> 
> ************************************

In spite of having been warned via text message, Molly was unable to refrain from shedding tears of relief on receiving her two boys back at the Baker Street residence, though only seven-year-old William was awake to be imprinted with lifelong guilt thereby, his younger brother having succumbed to the stress of the last sixteen hours shortly after Mycroft had taken him from Sherlock in Regent’s Park. Jon (Mycroft’s namesake and an exceptional lad in many of the best ways) was slight but well-knit for a five year old, and he was a dead weight against his uncle’s shoulder as he was carried up the two flights of stairs to the room he and his brother shared. Mycroft laid Jon on the bed with relief, and managed to remove the boy’s trainers, socks, and trousers before tucking him in. 

As Mycroft stood up again, Molly came in with young Will, who looked ready to drop, cheeks wet, mouth tragic. 

Molly said, “Thank you, Mycroft -- for everything. I’ll put Will to bed and then go to bed myself, Daisy’s bound to be up early, as usual. But Sherlock’s waiting for you downstairs.” 

“I’ll bid you goodnight, then,” Mycroft said. He saw that Will was peeking up at him, sad and uncertain, and he gave the boy a small, encouraging smile, and a pat on the shoulder before taking his leave. 

It was strange how clearly it all came back: the world-ending anguish of a child’s perspective. Though there was also the greater understanding of a parent’s burden. Sherlock’s experiences of marriage and fatherhood were certainly proving to be invaluable sources of information and interest. 

And who was he fooling? He, too, would give his life for any of them. 

Thankfully, Sherlock was waiting in the kitchen with a shot of good Scotch whiskey for each of them. 

“For medicinal purposes,” Sherlock said, handing him one of the glasses. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, and tossed it back. 

Sherlock laughed, then did the same. 

Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out his pack of Silk Cuts. “For medicinal purposes?” He raised a brow. 

Sherlock gave a crooked smile. “Alright. _Just the one_.” 

Little Brother poured them each another two fingers of Scotch, and then they repaired to Mrs. Hudson’s back garden, an area about the size of a postage stamp, but pleasant with a small patch of grass edged in flowers, and pots of various herbs. They shut the back door and sat down on the brick steps. 

The air was soft, and summer-warm. The stars were bright in the night sky. 

They sat in companionable silence for a while. 

Sherlock’s cigarette was nearly gone when he finally spoke. “Remember a few years ago, when you asked me when the hell I was going to grow up?” 

Mycroft smiled at the wry tone. “I believe I’ve had my answer to that question for some time now.” 

Sherlock carefully stubbed out his cigarette on the brick, then pocketed the remains for later disposal. Mrs. Hudson, though easy-going in many respects, could be a stickler about some things. 

Then Sherlock picked up his glass and said, thoughtfully, “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” 

Mycroft studied him. There would be a few more grey hairs amid his brother’s curls after this day’s doings, without a doubt. “It… er… _is what it is_?” he offered. 

Sherlock laughed softly. He was tired, and there was some bitterness in his expression. And resignation. But when he spoke again, eventually, his voice was a bit rough. “I love them, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft turned away. Looked up at the stars again. Pressed his lips together, briefly, then replied, “I know you do,” his own voice equally unsteady. 

Sherlock set his glass down and ran his hands through his hair, breathing deep. Then he straightened -- _Soldiers_ \-- and got to his feet. 

For a minute he just stood there, his back to Mycroft. His tall, still figure was silhouetted against the night sky, his messy curls looking like some odd halo about his head. 

Then he turned back and said, “What is it? Two A.M.? We need to get some sleep. I hope I don’t need to tell you how much I appreciate your help tonight?”

With relief, Mycroft noted that his brother’s expression had lightened considerably. “Not at all,” he replied. “I’m quite attached to them myself, you know.” 

Sherlock held out his hand. Mycroft took it, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

 

~.~  


End file.
